AT GRIPS WITH DEATH
Like a flash, Bomba acted.
He knew that if he rose he would be offering himself as a target. At
least two of his foes were near at hand. There might be more.
Not fifty feet away was a fallen tree, a veritable monarch of the
jungle, that he and Doto had made their way over with difficulty. Its
branches and foliage spread over a large area.
Turning in that direction, keeping on hands and knees and motioning
Doto to follow, Bomba made his way through the intervening thickets
with as much speed as possible.
Had his enemies followed at once, Bomba would probably have been
discovered and overtaken. But they were wary, and from previous
experiences of their fellows knew to what deadly effect Bomba could
shoot. So, from their places of concealment, they waited for the target
once more to present itself.
And when, a few minutes later, they were reinforced by some of their
mates and rushed forward in a body to the place where Bomba had last
been seen, their expected prey had vanished.
Bomba had utilized those few precious minutes to the utmost. Moving
noiselessly and yet rapidly, he had reached the vast mass of branches
and ensconced himself in their furthest depths.
His concealment was aided also by the fact that the tree had fallen
across a hollow, so that there was a deep hole directly under the
trunk. Into this Bomba burrowed, crouching low so that his whole body
was hidden even should the branches and foliage be thrust aside by his
pursuers.
He had sent Doto off in another direction, as the monkey could be of no
help to him if it came to a fight, and might by its chattering betray
his hiding place to his enemies.
And now, with his heart beating rapidly but with his courage at the
highest pitch, Bomba waited for the coming of his enemies.
He knew that he was in desperate straits and that, if discovered, he
would be doomed. But before the end came he would do his utmost to take
some of his foes with him.
It was characteristic of the boy that at this supreme moment he thought
more of Casson than of himself. He had so often faced death that it had
lost most of its terrors.
But Casson! Poor, sick, half-demented Casson! What would become of him
if anything should happen to Bomba, who had so long been his reliance
and defender?
In that confined space the lad’s bow and arrows were of no use to him.
But he had his revolver fully loaded, and at such short range it could
be trusted to do deadly execution. And as a last resort, if it came to
a hand to hand fight, there was his machete, in the use of which he was
a master.
Before long he could hear his pursuers beating the bushes in the
vicinity, giving utterance to grunts of rage as their search continued
fruitless.
He held his breath and waited.
Then he heard another sound, faint at first but gradually becoming more
definite, a rustling as of some soft, long body slithering through the
brush.
At intervals there was a sound like a rattle, as though the creature
had encountered some obstacle that had aroused its irritation and was
taking this way of showing it.
Bomba knew that sound, and his heart skipped a beat.
A snake was coming toward him, the deadly jaracara, the South American
rattlesnake, the slightest puncture of whose fangs meant death!
What should he do? He could not retreat. If he shot the reptile the
noise would bring his human enemies surging down upon him. If he
attempted to use his machete, the snake’s stroke would be quicker than
Bomba’s blow, and the creature’s fangs would be imbedded in his flesh.
While these thoughts were racing through his mind he saw the loathsome
body and the triangular head of the jaracara come into view not ten
feet away.
At the same moment the reptile caught sight of Bomba. It stopped short
in surprise. Then its eyes snapped with malignant fury. Like a flash it
threw its body into a coil and upreared its head to strike.
But in that short moment an inspiration had come to Bomba. He grasped
a long stick and prodded its coils. Instantly the snake struck at the
stick. Before it could recover, Bomba had pounced upon it and his
sinewy hands had closed upon its throat.
Then ensued a terrific struggle, with the death of one or perhaps both
of the combatants as the only possible outcome--a struggle all the more
terrible for Bomba, because it had to be carried on in silence.
And while he holds that slippery throat with the clutch of desperation,
as the snake twists and writhes and tries to bite, it may be well, for
the benefit of those who have not read the preceding volumes of this
series, to tell who Bomba was and what had been his adventures up to
the time at which this story opens.
From his earliest childhood, as far as his memory went, Bomba had
lived with Cody Casson in the jungle. The latter was a naturalist, who
had withdrawn from civilization and settled in a little cabin in the
remotest part of the Amazonian region. He was moody and abstracted, and
often went for days at a time without speaking except in monosyllables.
But he was kind to Bomba, and a warm attachment existed between them.
He had started to give the boy the rudiments of an education. But one
day, when Casson fired at an anaconda that was darting at Bomba, the
gun burst and laid Casson on his back, while the wounded anaconda
retreated. Bomba had dragged his injured companion to their cabin and
nursed him back to physical health. But Casson’s head had been injured
by the explosion, and from that time on he was half-demented, though
harmless. The lessons ceased abruptly, and Bomba became the provider
and protector of the little family of two.
Thrown thus early on his own resources, Bomba had developed into a
remarkable physical specimen of boyhood, daring, strong, and versed
in all the craft of the jungle. He was surrounded by daily perils, to
which a weaker nature would have succumbed. Serpents and wild beasts
sought his life. But against them he matched his own courage and
cunning, and had so far survived.
He knew comparatively nothing of the outside world. The jungle filled
his whole horizon. But he knew that he was different from the natives
of that region. Tugging at his heart was the knowledge that he was
white, and he was possessed with a great desire to come in contact with
his own people, to learn of their ways and dwell among them.
He knew that he was out of place where he was. The call of the blood
was strong within him. He had a great longing to know of his parentage.
He had questioned Casson repeatedly on this point, and the old man had
striven in vain to tell him. But his memory had failed at the critical
moment, and all that he could do was to mention the names “Bartow” and
“Laura,” which Bomba concluded must refer to his parents.
How Bomba met two white rubber hunters, Gillis and Dorn, and won
their gratitude by saving their lives when their camp was attacked
at night by jaguars; how he trapped the cooanaradi when it pursued
him; how he drove off the vultures when they assailed his friends the
monkeys; how the latter came to his aid when the cabin was besieged
by the headhunters--these adventures are told in the first book of
this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy; or, The Old Naturalist’s
Secret.”
Although Casson could not himself remember the facts about Bomba’s
parentage, he told him that he could learn all he wanted to know from
Jojasta, the medicine man of the Moving Mountain. It was a long journey
that Bomba had in prospect to reach Jojasta, but the urge to go was
so strong that the lad determined to attempt it. After beating off
another attack of the headhunters, Bomba took Casson down the river and
delivered him to the care of Pipina, an old squaw for whom he had done
many favors, and set out to find Jojasta.
From the very start his journey was beset with dangers from man and
beast, flood and earthquake. He was instrumental in delivering from the
power of the savages a Mrs. Parkhurst, whom he always referred to in
his mind as “the woman with the golden hair.” Later he found her son,
Frank, and in their joint adventures the boys grew strongly attached
to each other, and Frank’s stories of the wonders of civilization
intensified Bomba’s longings to see those things for himself.
How Bomba was swallowed up in an earthquake and hurled into a
subterranean cavern that promised to become a living tomb; by what a
marvelous combination of nerve and good fortune he reached the open air
and sunlight; how he finally found Jojasta after the latter had been
fatally hurt by the fall of his temple; the partial but not sufficient
information he received from the dying man regarding his parents; the
obstacles he surmounted and the perils he escaped are told in the
preceding volume of this series, entitled: “Bomba the Jungle Boy at the
Moving Mountain; or, The Mystery of the Caves of Fire.”
And now to return to Bomba, as he fights his life-and-death battle with
the snake amid the branches and foliage of the fallen tree, not daring
to make a sound lest he betray his hiding place to the savages who were
hunting for him only a short distance away.
Beneath the scaly skin of the jaracara there was tremendous muscular
power, and this was made more available when the reptile secured a
purchase by wrapping its long body about the boy’s leg.
It squirmed and writhed and twisted, seeking to sink its fangs into the
hands that held it. Its jaws, slavering with poison, were never more
than a few inches from the boy’s flesh. If Bomba’s hands should slip
from that slimy throat ever so little, his doom would be sealed.
The snake knew this and redoubled its exertions. But Bomba knew it too,
and held on with desperation, sinking his powerful fingers deeper and
deeper into the reptile’s throat.
If he could only hold on a little longer!
For time was on his side. The snake, deprived of breath by that choking
grasp, must eventually succumb. Its only chance lay in the possibility
of Bomba’s hands slipping or his nerve failing.
But his hands did not slip nor did his nerve fail.
Gradually the struggles of the snake grew weaker. A glaze began to
steal over the horrid eyes. The grip of its body about the boy’s leg
slowly relaxed. Then at last the reptile straightened out and its head
hung limp.
Bomba still retained his grip for another minute or two to make
assurance doubly sure. Then, when no doubt remained, he threw the
reptile to the ground and with one stroke of his machete cut off its
head.
Only then did he sink down on the ground, panting and exhausted. The
tax had been a tremendous one, not only on his muscles but also on his
nerves. He had seldom been brought more closely face to face with death.
But he had conquered, and a tingle of exultation ran through his veins.
He cast a glance of disgust at the grinning head of his dead foe, and
then turned his attention to the human enemies without.
The struggle had been carried on in such silence that it had not
attracted their attention. They were still at some distance, beating
the bushes for their prey and uttering exclamations of disappointment
and chagrin.
It was too much to hope, however, that sooner or later their attention
would not be drawn toward the tree, and Bomba held himself prepared
for that eventuality.
He wiped his knife on the foliage and restored it to his belt. Then,
with his revolver held ready for action, he crouched low in the hollow
and waited.
He could hear the savages coming nearer and nearer. The crackling of
the bushes and their guttural conversation became more distinct.
Then the branches of the tree were pushed aside and a ray of light shot
through!